Death Wish
by Erandri
Summary: John Watson was always a hyppocritical type of man. A One-Shot about what John was thinking during him time in Afghanistan. Not really a hurt/comfort, but that seemed to fit best.


Death Wish

By: Erandri

* * *

><p><strong>So, this was written to pass the time as I work on my other fics. It's just a little piece i though of about what John was thinking during the war; but it was mostly a way to procrastinate so I don't have to type up the other twenty pages of fanfics that I have to update. dont worry, theyre comming next. <strong>

**Im not sure if I really got John's character down right but the series didn't tell us too much about his time in the war, so I took artistic liberties and wrote whatever came to me. Its my first fic in a long time so I appologise if it seems kind of awkward.**

**I hope you like it and remember, reviews are love!**

* * *

><p>John Watson was a hypocritical type of man. He was a good man yet he went to war; he liked solitude yet he had joined a brotherhood. He was a doctor who shot at people. John Watson saved lives when he wasn't sure that he even wanted his own.<p>

His parents were long dead and his sister drank so much that she had pushed him into hating her. His friends either left him before the war or lost contact with him during it. He couldn't blame them, he knew what the war had done. It had broken him. He would fall asleep cradling his gun, jumping at the sound of a pin drop. He saw soldiers in pieces and was forced to stitch them back together telling them to hold on while he was on the verge of letting go; asking for the next bullet fired to be aimed at him.

He was ready to let go. Ready to leave behind the pain of losing his parents to fate and his sister to the bottle. He was ready to leave behind these men whom he had fought and survived with. He was ready to leave behind the oppressive gear he was forced to carry, each kilo like a weight bearing down on his mind, body and soul. He was ready to leave behind his lonely one bedroom flat in the outskirts of London and the neighbor who didn't know he existed. John was prepared for all of this.

He was prepared to leave behind the bodies. They littered the streets, many in pieces. Blood spattered on the buildings that he was forced to walk through as he searched for the dying. It seemed like death was taunting him, so close and yet ever so far away, it refused to reach out and take him too. So he continued his routine; shoot, stitch, hide, sleep, repeat. Every day he longed for death to claim him like it had so many others. He was ready to give up the pain of the world for the sweet eternal silence.

Until he got shot.

He never saw the shot but he heard it as clear as if he had fired it himself. There was nothing special about this shot; it was just a regular bullet fired from a regular gun and if you looked at all the data they would probably be normal too. As normal as this bullet was, it was also extraordinary: because as it wounded him, it also saved him.

It tore through his flesh, loosing his blood all over the demanding gear strapped to him. A hot pain seared over the wound and shattered the numb world he had shut himself in for so many months. He fell along with the pieces of his safe and precious haven and gasped at the pain he was in. He had heard soldiers say that being shot was painful, he had also heard soldiers say that they hadn't even noticed they were hit. None of them prepared him for how excruciating his pain would be. It had torn through him, ripping through skin and muscle like they were butter until it stopped, lodged in his bone. The pain radiated out of the wound but soon his adrenalin kicked in and was starting to pleasantly hide it away from him. And as his brothers were ripping his gear away to treat the wound he realized one important thing.

He didn't want to die.

He didn't want to leave this painful world because as cruel as it could be, it was also the most beautiful thing he could imagine. He wasn't ready to leave behind his sister because as much as he hated her, he also still loved her and couldn't take the rest of her family away from her. He wasn't ready to leave behind London, the damp and damask city held too many happy memories for him to just leave. He wasn't ready to die yet because he still had yet to live.

So he fought. His body healed the physical wound, but it was up to him to heal the rest. So he decided to talk with an old mate, and he decided to go meet the crazy, brilliant man named Sherlock Holmes, and he decided to run all over London chasing criminals and solving cases.

And he lived, John Watson lived like no one else had ever lived before. Because he didn't want to die anymore, he wanted to experience this crazy world and everything that it had to offer. Even if those things were painful.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope that you liked it. I'm fairly pleased with it if I do say so myself, but I may be a little biased. So, Review and tell me what you thought!<strong>


End file.
